A Wilbury Tale

One day, while browsing through the racks of a local record store; I looked up as I felt somebody tap me on the shoulder. The person was wearing dark glasses, so I couldn’t quite see their eyes. 1


“’Scuse, love.” They said, with a slight Liverpool accent. I moved to one side to let the stranger pass.
“Ta, that’s very kind of you.” The stranger paused and removed his dark sunglasses for a second. In that brief moment, I recognised him…George Harrison, former Beatle, dark
horse, gardener, former Travelling Wilbury.2

“Hello, George. How are you?”
He laughed, before replying: “OK, thanks, love. You know, you’re the only fan I’ve ever bumped into that’s bothered to ask”
“What are you buying, mate?” I knew it was a nosy question, but seeing as the man had probably met every single person whose music he liked, and had copies of all their records, it seemed strange that he’d be in a record shop.3

“George Formby. He’s a favourite of mine”
“I haven’t heard of him.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to have done; he was more thirties and forties music.”
“I’ve heard most of your records, though. I love Somewhere in England, that’s a great album.”
“Thanks. I’m glad to hear that people still like that kind of music…” He trailed off then, seeming bored with our conversation.
“Thanks for chatting.”4

George turned, looking as though he was about to walk away, and then turned back to me.
“Got a pen, love?”
“Sure, George.” I produced a blue ballpoint, the kind of pen I always carried with me just in case I needed to write anything down. George pulled something from his pocket and then took the pen I’d offered.5

“Thanks, love. What’s your name?”
“Corey.”
“That’s a lovely name.”
George dropped his voice to a whisper then, so I couldn’t quite work out what he was saying. He was writing on an old piece of paper. A few minutes later, he handed me both the pen and the paper. I glanced at the sheet quickly, and read what he had written: “To Corey, with best wishes, George Harrison”. He had then signed underneath with his Om symbol and cross sign.
“Thanks very much, George.”
“No prob. You’re welcome. You know, you’re the first fan I’ve met who hasn’t asked for an autograph.”
“I suppose most people would be obsessed with trying to get an autograph or worse…”
George chuckled at that: “You’ve heard about the pyjamas, then?”
“Sure. Hasn’t every Beatles fan heard about that?”
“I guess so. Fame isn’t always a bed of roses, you know.”
“I know, George.”6

He walked away then, calling goodbye over his shoulder, and telling me to take care. I have done, ever since. I’m 27 now, and a published author to boot. I understand what George meant. I met him when I was 17, and four years later he was gone, that wonderful man who had given so much to the world. I’ve still got those scratched LPs in a cupboard somewhere.